23 Apr 2006

A few weeks ago, Jacquelyn and I giddily signed up to spend a Saturday afternoon getting some exercise, possibly learning some moves to show the boys back home and having a bit of a laugh. What we signed up for was Pole & Strip class. What we got were bruises - mainly to our egos.

The class was yesterday and was supposed to be a beginner class filled with women "of all sizes, ages and fitness levels". Instead, it was a room full of size 4's who took to the moves and pole swinging like K-Fed takes to a bag of Cheetos. The same could not be said of me to say the least.

Without question, I was the largest person there. Well, I had the biggest bottom-half anyway (very mirrored rooms allow one to analyze herself and realize how grossly out of proportion her top half is to her bottom half). Yayyyy.

Vanity issues aside, this class was hardly beginner. The first (and "easiest") move we were taught involved us grabbing the pole from as high as we could and twirling around with our ankles crossed and gracefully propelling ourselves around and around. The girls in the class mastered this within a couple endearingly cute tries. I, on the other hand, woke up this morning to discover a massive bruise on my inner thigh from having squeezed for my dear life to stay attached to the pole.

Very quickly, Jacquelyn and I noticed how out of the league we were. With each step of choreography given to us, our faces would twist into deeper looks of "WTF!?!" To make matters even sweeter, our pole wasn't the most snuggly installed and the fixtures would rattle loudly each time we threw ourselves at the thing. It was bad.

As we went through the routine, Jacquelyn and I decided we'd try to have as much fun as we could and would just make up our own moves to fill-in the parts that gravity and weak biceps wouldn't allow. The teacher and the fellow strippers-in-training looked at us as if we were committing ho blasphemy.

Two hours after we went down the road of uncoordinated ass wiggles in the Land of Waifs, it was over. We promptly ran to a local bar to soothe and cleanse our souls with beer and nachos, thus making everything better in the way that only melted cheese and liquor can.

Oh my god, hahaha, I am still cracking up at the hilarity. My foot, as I was convinced, is indeed bruised on top. Who knew this could even happen? Of course, the calves and inner thighs also bear the blacks and blues only a truly terrible stripper could know. Har.

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Who's Smashing The Keyboard?

My name is Jen and I look like that picture at all times. I enjoy appetizers as entrees, fountains choreographed to music and television shows intended for teenage girls. Oh - and I really dislike it when people spell it "Jenn"; it's practically a phobia.